00000000

the main switch is thrown. 
electrons surge through wire veins.
existence begins.

| Tags || poem | robot |

Byte Me

Because I've been reading Isaac Asimov's I, Robot, and because I've been listening to one of my favorite songs, and because of this blog post, I have started to write a series of poems (haikus to be exact) about a robot.

Yes, that is as stupid as it sounds. I've written a poem about a robot before, and it seems to fit the theme of some of the haikus I'm working on, but collectively, this series of poems is more like a narrative about the life of a robot. But don't worry, I'm not taking this whole thing too seriously.

Really, I'm just having fun writing them, and I need something to keep me busy while I'm at work. So, be prepared for the barrage of bad poetry that will ensue.

| Tags || poetry | robots |

Scott Erke

I believe it was my junior year when Scott Erke died. He killed himself. He skipped school one day and sat in his closed garage with his car running for so long that he asphyxiated, inhaling fatal amounts of carbon monoxide. Rumor has it that he turned the car off right before he died, leading some to believe that he tried to stop his slow suicide, but that it was already too late. I think he was just being courteous.

I don't know why I took Scott's death so hard. I barely knew him. I had only talked to him a few times. Actually, he didn't talk much at all, just listened and grinned out of the corner of his mouth. We had mutual friends, but never hung out with them at the same time. Both of our little sisters were best friends, but we had little else in common.

I suppose I reacted less to his death and more to the way people talked about him after he died. People pretended to care so much more about him now that he was gone, when, if they had showed even a fraction of that caring to him when he was living, he might still be alive.

I remember seeing Scott's sister, Kara, and my sister talking and crying shortly after the news got around town. They were both crying. Then Kara inhaled deeply and wiped her eyes, repeating a mantra, "I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry." That's when I felt most sorry for her. I remember other people crying, too, other people who probably didn't know him very well and just wanted to cry about something. I remember my sister talking about them with disdain and saying that they didn't deserve to cry.

I wrote a letter the day after Scott died. It wasn't to anyone; it was just a letter to vent my feelings. I wrote in the letter how I felt bad for his family. I wrote that I hated the phrases "cry for help" and "warning signs." I wrote that I knew what feeling all alone was like. I wrote that I wished I had gotten to know him better. I wrote that I was angry that those closest to him didn't somehow see it coming; they must have suspected something! I wrote that I was angry that suicide was the only way Scott could feel safe.

I wish I still had this letter to read now. I don't remember all of what it said. The only thing that I remember verbatim is how it started, "I killed Scott Erke," and how it ended, "We all killed Scott Erke." I cried after I wrote it, even though I didn't deserve to.

Grandma Mimi

I remember walking into the dining room with some toy in hand and seeing my mother sitting alone at the dining table, head bowed between her hands. I can't remember if she was crying, but I knew that she was upset. I circumnavigated the table and sat on the floor next to her chair. I began to absently play with my toy, hoping that she would comfort me. I don't know why I thought the upset one should be the one to comfort the content one. Perhaps I empathized with her emotion. Or perhaps I was just too inexperienced with the comforting process to realize that it could be transmitted both ways, from parent to child and from child to parent. Nevertheless, I knew something was wrong and I did not want to leave until it was resolved.

"What's wrong?" I looked up and asked my mother.

She didn't look at me. I remember she took a long pause (or what seems like a long pause to a four-year-old) before answering, "My mother is dead." I didn't know what that meant.

I only remember the funeral and the reception in (probably inaccurate) snippets. I don't remember whether the event with my mother in the dining room took place before or after it, though. I do remember wearing a suit or at least a tie. I remember staring at a mounted deer head. I remember a lot of adults talking to each other, and no one paying attention to me. I remember asking to look inside the casket several times, each time being told "no."

For some reason, I don't ever remember being sad.

Recap

This semester has been busy, but that is no excuse for having neglected my duty and privilege as a blogger: inundating you with worthless knowledge about my relatively insignificant life. So, here's some highlights from this semester:

• I got a new job as a kitchen employee at Hy-Vee, the local grocery store. I don't really care for the job too much. I still work at the Language & Literature Division Office. I'm working there over Winter Break, in fact.
• I dressed up as a zombie dressed up as a bunny for Halloween. I was bartender at Choose Your Poison, my fraternity's annual costume party, for a couple hours. During those couple hours I drank approximately enough "poison" to choke a donkey. Afterwards I apparently ended up tackling too many people and wouldn't stay standing up. The Magster, dressed as a hobo, made me go to bed. I puked.
• I read a couple of books that I liked: Ishmael, Possession, and a classic from my childhood A Castle in the Attic
• I put my resume online; I've begun the job search. I've already applied to a couple places, but most employers don't want me begging for a job until February or March.
• I killed a man with my bare hands.
• I participated in Tour de Franzia, drinking over a liter of boxed wine. At some in the night I remember getting into a wrestling match with a blind guy. Later, I puked.
• I decided to recap for you what you missed this semester on my blog.

I'm sure much more happened, but I can't think of anything else important right now. I'll try to start updating more regularly again, though.

I Wish I Was a Droid

"Sir, if you'll not be needing me, I think I'll shut down now."
--See-Threepio

The Internet Hates Me

Believe me, I want to post. But I don't have Internet access at the Fraternity House (Oh yeah, in case you were wondering, I don't live out of my car anymore. I have a place to live once again. (I'll tell more about that later. (*cross fingers*))) and walking to the library is such a chore. And if I did go to the library, I might accidentally start studying, and that just wouldn't be good for my 2.60 GPA. But I will be back, once the Internet stops hating me.

Jorb

Is there anybody out there that wants to pay me? For anything? If you have a job, I'll do it. I would prefer a job that allows me to write . . . stuff. But, honestly, I'll do anything. I work in a kitchen right now; I'm not above working a crappy job. All I need is enough to live on and pay off all my debts. Well, I graduate in May, so that will give you some time to think about it.

Paladin

| Superhero | Part 7 |

At age 32 Alex found himself single, independently wealthy, wanting nothing, bored, and lonely. And, like other young men in his particular predicament, he decided to find a hobby. However, instead of turning to drinking, drugs, or womanizing, he decided to pick up crime-fighting as his pass-time.

Naming himself Paladin and dressing in several shades of dark blue, Alex hit the streets at night, looking to right wrongs and defend the defenseless. Masked and covered in body armor, Alex felt invincible.

He spent his first few nights riding his motorcycle, listening to the garbled police blotter through his headphones, arriving at crimes already stopped, and generally looking ridiculous.

He decided to ditch the bike and creep to and fro in the shadows of alleys and rooftops in what was considered by most to be "the worst part of town." This is when things got exciting for him.

Alex peered out from the alley between The Busty Boutique and Garvey's Liquor and Tobacco. Even at three in the morning there was still much activity in the street. He'd been jumping from rooftop to rooftop and sneaking about for hours without seeing so much as a mugging. He needed a break.

He casually walked deep into the recesses of the alley, where shadow and the odd scent of decaying garbage concealed him. He removed his gloves, gauntlets, spandex shirt, and elbow and shoulder pads. He undid his flak jacket and threw it into the pile. His body was dripping with sweat. I'll have to bring some water next time, he thought. He removed his mask and ran his hands through his wet hair, sitting down on a stack of several old tires. He sighed and reflected on the practicality of his new-found hobby.

Behind him, a side door to Garvey's Liquor flew open. Alex stood up and spun around to see a scared middle-aged man being pushed through the doorway. "Get on your knees, chink!" said a skinny man in a hooded sweatshirt behind him. Alex watched as the man he assumed was the store clerk slowly bent down, hands behind his head. The hooded man pointed a pistol at the back of the clerk's head. Alex's heart raced. He knew what he had to do, but could he?

The man with the gun leaned down to talk into the clerks ear. "I'm only gonna ask you one more Goddamned time! What's the combination to the safe?" The clerk replied that he didn't know between sobs. "Wrong answer, chink." The man cocked the gun.

Alex took a step forward and shouted, "Stop!" It was just like out of a movie. Alex stood bare-chested barely visible in the scant light cast from the open door, his face still concealed. The clerk's assailant looked up and made an exclamation of confusion. There was a moment of silence. Alex began, "I'm Paladin, defender of light, and you, sir, are committing...." The man with the gun turned it on Alex and pulled the trigger three times quickly. Alex stood for a moment, then crumpled to the ground.

I Need a New Name Badge

My new boss called me Josh the other day out of no where. He didn't even know he'd done it, and I didn't correct him.

Vertebrate

I don't technically live anywhere. I have most of my stuff in the basement of an apartment that my friends live in. I had some clothes at the Magster's place, but I've since taken that out and deposited it into my car. When I'm not sleeping over at Magster, I sleep on people's couches or in my fraternity's party barn. I ask people to take showers at their place. Sometimes I go to the library just to hang out.

I want my house to hurry up and get finished. It's still supposed to be two weeks.

I haven't been dealing with this very well: Yesterday, I just didn't go to work. I could have, I just didn't. I knew the consequences of not going to work. I could probably get fired. I just didn't care.

When faced with adversity, I tend to curl up like a caterpillar that's been poked. Take, for instance, the time my car's battery died this past summer. I went and cried to my mommy. And then there's the time at the end of last semester where I just didn't go to classes for a couple week because I was "too stressed." If my father were around he would say something like, "Stand up straight; show some backbone." But it's not that I'm invertebrate. My spine is just so used to curling up that every time I have a little bit of stress, I ball up into the fetal position.

I'm such a pussy.

Scolding

While driving through town to find some fast food, as I'm often apt to doing, I came upon the vehicle containing some of my friends. As is the custom of rude, young ruffians such as myself, I flipped my friends the bird. In return they flipped me off. Flipping the middle finger is the friendly wave of my generation.

The driver pulled over into a nearby parking lot and I followed suit. He threw a book at me that I had left with him, and we exchanged pleasantries.

From nowhere a minivan pulled up next to me; it was piloted by an upset middle-aged woman. "Did we do something to upset you?" she asked me. I was confused not only by her non sequitur question, but also by her use of "we" as there appeared to be no one else in the van with her. She could see the confusion on my face and added, "Why did you flip me off back there?"

embarrassed I confessed, "Oh, sorry. I was actually flipping them off," pointing to the carful of my companions parked next to mine.

"Why would you do that? I have children with me." I saw shadows moving through the tinted windows in the back of the minivan.

I apologized again. My comrades in the other car began to giggle.

"Are you in college?" she inquired.

"Yes," I replied. I could sense a talking-to was coming.

"Don't you think that's a little immature?" she said more as a statement. "Don't you think you're too old for that?" I had not heard about an age-limit on flipping people off or a general rule regarding ribbing of friends.

I did, however, think that I was a little too old to be talked down to thusly. But in order to avoid a confrontation, I figured that I would take my lumps and apologize. "Yeah, probably. I'm sorry." There. I had apologized three times. I had been satisfactorily sincere, and the woman and I could part ways. I turned to talk to my friends in the other car, but apparently the conversation was not over.

"I mean, c'mon!" she said passionately. I turned back to look at her. "When I saw that, it made me want to cry."

I am not a rude person. Sometimes I am gruff and I don't always smile at strangers. I don't particularly care for every random person that I come across, but I try to treat everyone with the respect that I would expect from them.

I was rude to this woman. "Well, you can go ahead and cry, ma'am," I said as I shooed her away with my hand. I didn't particularly feel like being scolded and belittle or given a morality lesson by some woman who obviously thought that my mother had done an insufficient job in raising me. I had politely apologized, and if that wasn't enough, well, that's too bad. I wanted to be done with this conversation.

flabbergasted. That's what her face was. She didn't look flabbergasted; her face was the actual word "flabbergasted." It was Plato's perfect Form of Flabbergastation. Her face was the epitome of confusion, disgust, disbelief, anger, and bewilderment: flabbergasted. Undaunted by my audacity, she continued, wild-eyed, to shake her proverbial finger at me. "Why would you do that? Why would you flip someone off?! It's ... it's ..."

I didn't let her finish, "Because I think it's funny."

She repeated her questions. I repeated my answer. She could see that she was not making her point. She changed tactics: "That is not part of home-town Kirksville values. I live in Kirksville. I have a family here."

"I live here, too, ma'am. I've lived here for five years." A little exaggeration. I've only had a permanent residence in this town for two years. But I have slept and eaten and breathed and shopped and et cetera in Kirksville for going on five years now.

"I live here," she repeated as if to say that her state of "living here" was somehow superior to mine. "Those are not part of Kirksville's home-town values." She liked to repeat herself.

I wanted to tell her that I came from a town smaller and more "home-town values" that Kirksville, and that I had flipped off plenty of people in that town, some not so playfully. I couldn't think of a way to say it very succinctly.

"People live here," she continued on with her point that somehow the fact that this is my town, too, it did not belong to me. As if I dropped from the sky every evening, driving around in my car, flipping off random families, only to return to the sky without apologies or explanation. "You can go back to where ever you come from and do that all you want, but don't do it in Kirksville." I repeated the fact that I live in Kirksville. I don't like repeating myself.

The novelty of this confrontation had worn off, and my friends in the other car took off.

Seeing a fraternity sticker on the back of my friend's car she asked, "Are you in a fraternity?"

I could see where this was going. In Kirksville, as in other small college towns I'm sure, despite the fact that college students support the economy of the town (making up nearly a third of it's population when school is in session) by bringing in their parents' money from out of town and spending it here, there is an anti-college-student sentiment among the aborigines of the town. This goes doubly for the Greek system (generally the students with enough extra cash to spend that they can pay dues). They view us as a nuisance, a pest, a weed that has infested their fair town (when in fact, we're more like a cash crop, a ripe fruit dripping with nectar, just waiting to be plucked). The university is probably the only thing that keeps Adair county from being the poorest county in the state (right now it's ranked 3rd poorest). The residents of this area should get down on their knees and praise their various gods that we exist. Instead, they look down their noses and scoff in disgust.

And this royally pisses me off.

"No," I replied to her question. The answer wasn't relevant to our discussion. "Look, ma'am, I'm don't want to discuss this with you anymore."

"Do you even know what that means, giving the middle finger?"

"Yes, it means 'fuck you,'" I almost smiled devilishly because I had just said "fuck you" to a middle-aged woman with kids.

"It means a special union between a man and a woman. And you're cheapening it."

I wasn't really following her line of logic so I said again, "I don't want to discuss this with you."

"I want you to say that you'll never do that in home-town Kirksville again." She really liked the phrase "home-town Kirksville." I refused. She asked this time, "Can you tell me that you'll never do that again in Kirksville?"

"I could but it would be a lie." We danced around this for a few more exchanges. I was getting tired and hungry, so I gave in, and I gave her an obviously, and horribly insincere "I'll never do that again in Kirksville."

She suddenly seemed satisfied with that. I've never understood people who accept insincere concessions and apologies and such. For some reason just saying the words without meaning is worth something to them. Anyway, the conflict had apparently been solved. And that's when the wierdest thing happened. She apologized to me. She said, "I'm sorry for being so pushy."

What. The. Fuck. ?.

I still don't understand it.

Laughing

I couldn't help but laugh. At you. At me. At every beautifully ugly thing in this world. I laughed with snot dripping out of my nose and pain running down my face. I laughed from somewhere deeper than my lungs, from my soul. I laughed from beyond the selfish, cynical, down-trodden, whiney, pseudo-intellectual organs in the center of me, from below my aching diaphram, from between my wheezing liver and churning stomach, from without my knotted intestines. The laughter grew like a tumor, and I could see the pain from this unfamiliar feeling in me reflecting in your confused eyes.

You weren't alone in not understanding this experience. Maybe it was a moment of clarity. Or maybe it was a moment of absolute insanity. But I laughed like I finally got the joke that I've been mulling over for the past twenty-two years. Of course, I probably didn't get it, or all of it. And even if I did, I've forgotten the punchline.

But that doesn't matter now. I still have the memory of holding when you said, "Let me go; I hate you." I still remember tackling you in the grass, cars passing by. I remember laughing and laughing and laughing and crying and not knowing why and not caring, and only caring about you for that moment, and not even caring if you didn't care about me, and just being thankful that I got laugh insanely with / at / next to / for / because of you.

Dear Tom C. Hunley,

I just stole and read your book of poems My Life as a Minor Character which I have been eyeing for two days now. Someone carelessly abandoned a copy in the faculty workroom next to the copy machine and I have no qualms with stealing things that don't belong to me. The reason it caught my eye is because I've been trying to write a poem about being a minor character in my own autobiography, but now I don't want to write it because I'd feel unoriginal, like I was stealing your idea. So, I guess I lied about not having any problems with stealing. Anyway, while I was reading, I found that I had already written all your poems. In fact, I'm pretty sure that they were my poems because they were all my ideas in the first place. You had apparently been taking dictation for me without my knowledge. I appreciate your enthusiasm; I'm sure you were just trying to help, but next time let me know before publishing a book of my poems under your name.

Recipe for Dying Lungs and Liver

Take the excitement of finally having friends back in town, peal off the responsibility of classes, and stir in the nuisance of several bills and two minimum-wage jobs that never seem to pay enough. Sprinkle in feelings of awkwardness and discomfort from living with a girlfriend and her roommate for a few weeks. Then slowly pour cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey. Blend ingredients until the mixture turns into a blurry haze. Let cool before serving. Serves one.

Potato

"I like potatoes because they look like boobies."
--Mr. McBastard to The Magster

Is Josh There?

Someone just called my cell phone (wrong number) and asked for Josh. I almost said, "Speaking."

Boy on a Stick and Slither

True Love

Suggestion

| Superhero | Part 6 |

"So, you can disappear and turn things invisible and stuff?" Miranda walked alongside Thomas, nearly trotting to keep up with Thomas' long, quick gate. She looked up at him, and he watched the ground as he walked. She didn't know where they were going, but Thomas seemed to. Actually, she wasn't sure if they were going anywhere. She had a feeling that if she slowed down or stopped Thomas would not wait up for her. He seemed uncomfortable to say the least. "I mean if you don't mind me asking." She shot him her best smile, but he didn't notice.

"Uh, I don't mind, I guess," he replied shyly. Thomas was still unsure of this girl's motives. Why does she want to know about me? Is she just curious, or is it something else? "It's not as cool as turning invisible, though," he said.

"How do you do it?" Miranda pressed.

Thomas had never talked about his ability with anyone before, not even his friends. He had always imagined telling someone, not anyone in particular, just someone. But he'd never really gotten the opportunity, until now. "Well, I kinda just suggest an idea to a person."

Miranda was confused. "What do mean?"

Thomas had had this conversation one thousand times in his head. He was always eloquent as he explained in detail the minutiae of his ability to some eager listener. They would listened wide-eyed and laugh as he told anecdotes about his experiences with his ability: The time he had scared a bully so much that the bully had pissed his pants on the playground; the time he used his ability to hide in his sister's room when she was having a slumber party and watched the girls change; the time he stole an entire couch from a furniture store. The listener would marvel at his power and be in awe of Thomas, and Thomas would smile and shrug. "It's just something I can do," he would say in humble summary. But now Thomas was hardly eloquent. "I kinda just put an idea into someone's mind, and they, like, make up the rest." This sounded much better in my head, he thought.

"I don't follow."

"It's like this," he began before pulling his head off his neck. He held is detached head out in front of the two of them, facing back, looking at Miranda.

She was stupefied. "That's awesome!"

"See, all I did was suggest to you that you see me pull my head off and hold it in my hand. It's up to you if you see blood dripping from my neck, or if my eyes glaze over, or if you hear the voice coming from my head's mouth or the stump of my neck."

She looked up at his neck. She knew his head was on top of it. It had to be. But she just couldn't see it. "Even though I know this is just a trick, I still can't see your head where it really is. Why?"

"I don't know," Thomas said as he replaced his head. "Your mind had already taken my suggestion and decided on what it was seeing. Even if it's wrong, why would your mind want change it's mind now?" He chuckled at what he had just said, and looked at Miranda. She was still staring at him.

"What happens if someone doesn't take the suggestion?"

"It happens every so often. People are easy to manipulate when they're distracted or emotional, but when they're calm or centered or zen or whatever you want to call it, they're harder to convince. Also, the more detailed one of my suggestions is, the less likely it is that they'll believe it. And the simpler my suggestion, the more the person can use their own imagination to expound upon it." Miranda was smiling and nodding her head. She was indeed a wide-eyed listener. "So, why do you want to know about this?" Thomas slowed his pace and looked into Miranda face. who is this girl? What does she want?

Miranda leaned in to tell a secret. Her face was serious, but somehow still smiling. She spoke in a hushed voice, "I have a super power, too."

Disappear

| Superhero | Part 5 |

Plaid Shirt was fifty paces ahead of Miranda, walking lazily with long strides. He was tapping his pack of cigarettes against the butt of his hand. He ripped off the packaging and threw it into an alley as he passed. Miranda shook her head in disappointment. Without warning Plaid Shirt stopped and began to turn. Caught off guard and suddenly ashamed for stalking this man, Miranda conspicuously turned and inspected the stoop of the building next to her. Miranda's indiscreet action caught the eye of Plaid Shirt, and he inspected her for a few seconds before lifting a lighter to the cigarette dangling out of his mouth, shielding the flame from the breeze. His gaze stayed on Miranda for a few more seconds as he took the first drag off his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. He turned back and continued on his way. Miranda sighed and shook her head again. What am I doing? she thought. Nevertheless, she continued her pursuit.

Over the next block, Miranda slowly closed the gap, all the time trying to come up with a rational reason for following this guy. She kept thinking about what Alex had told her about their kind of people and the energy that bound them all together. It had sounded a little crazy to her then, but it she thought that it might be starting to make sense. Miranda was so close behind the man in the plaid shirt now that she could smell his cigarette smoke.

Plaid Shirt flicked his cigarette butt into the street and gave a sly look over his shoulder. As he expected, Miranda was still following him, only closer than expected. Miranda noticed his backward glance and thought, I'd better come up with something to say before he gets anxious about be following him. But what do you say to in a situation like this? 'Hey, I know you've got powers; I saw you use them on people. That's pretty cool.'

Miranda blinked and he was gone. She stopped. Her eyes were wide in disbelief. The man in the plaid shirt, who had been not more than five feet in front of her, had vanished. Miranda looked around to see if she had just missed him duck into a doorway or cross the street. But that's impossible, she thought, I was staring at his back one second, and the next second he just wasn't there. What's going on?

A voice from behind her spoke, “Quit following me.” Miranda spun around but no one was there except for an elderly man twenty feet away, inching his way up the sidewalk.

Miranda knew the voice belonged to the man in the plaid shirt. She wanted to see him, to talk to him. She wanted to tell him that she knew had a secret, that she did, too, and that he shouldn't be ashamed of it or scared of other people. She wanted to tell him something reassuring and eloquent. All she managed to squeeze out was a frightened “Hello?”

“Quit following me,” repeated the disembodied voice, a little more stern this time, and from the other direction. Miranda spun again. There was no one near her.

“I . . . I . . . saw what you did,” stuttered Miranda. There was no response. “Hello?” Still nothing. Miranda stood for a while listening while people walked by. Miranda sighed. I messed this one up. I should have just said something. “Sorry I creeped you out,” she said mostly to herself. She turned to walk back. Where was I even going before all this? she wondered.

“What do you want?” asked the man in the plaid shirt, suddenly standng next to Miranda. His face was serious, and his eyes were fixed on hers.

She yelped, stumbled sideways, and fell on her backside. “Holy shit! You scared me.” Even this reaction was somehow fairly nonchalant, given the circumstances.

A charmingly devilish grin spread across Plaid Shirt's face at Miranda's startled but calm composure, then it disappeared as quickly as he had. He returned to wearing a scowl. “No one will believe you if you told them. I didn't rob him anyway,” he stated.

“What?” Miranda tried to calm her fluttering heart.

“I didn't rob that guy in the store, he gave me the money. I didn't use a gun or even threaten him.”

“I didn't mean that.” Miranda looked up. “Can you help me up?” she asked, still shaken by the disappearing/reappearing act.

Plaid Shirt cautiously offered his hand to Miranda. She grabbed it, and he began to hoist her up. She weighed a lot more than he had expected. She held on to his hand even after she was up and the began to shake it, “My name's Miranda, by the way.”

“My name's, uh, Thomas,” he said suddenly looking much less angry and much more nervous. Thomas couldn't tell whether this girl was a threat or not. Her politeness and amazingly relative calm about his invisibilty stunt made him want ot lower his defences. But doubtful thoughts entered his mind, Why was she folling me? What does she want? He looked at her face and suddenly realized how pretty she was. His eyes couldn't hold her gaze, and he looked down at her shoes. She has cute shoes. Miranda smiled in her eyes and let go of his hand.

I Haven't Forgotten

I thought that I would just let my faithful readers (if there are any) know that I haven't been completely neglecting to post, I've been working on a couple posts, but they are still in draft form. I'll try getting one, if not both, of them polished and ready to post by tonight.

Rainbow Basin

I held you as close as the heavens hold
the earth, but I was envious
of the sky,
blushing with anticipation,
as it caressed the hills
with cloud-soft strokes,
until finally sliding the sun slowly
down into the waiting ground.
Beauty imbued the horizon in hues
of darkened orange and reddened blues,
unseen before, but somehow so familiar.
The earth whispered
through the wind and gasped,
while the sun delved deeper still
into crimsons and purples
until it pushed, finally, far
beyond our view.
And there was in the atmosphere
an incredible energy
growing with panting breezes,
the leaves shivering with
excitement on the trees.
Unable to sustain itself,
the sky collapsed into black.
We were left with wonder on our faces
as the view was made more beautiful
by it's passing.  We got up to
pass the time
until another evening faded.

Stay Together for the Kids (A Sob Story)

I guess I had it pretty easy. Not quite as easy as my baby sister, but easier than my older brother at least. He was old enough to know what was going on. I was only three years old when my parents divorced and four when my mom got remarried. I wasn't too conscience of what was going on; the only thing I can recall about it is a fleeting memory of standing in the bed of what I assume was my step-dad's truck "helping" to move our stuff out of my father's condo.

In our new house I remember playing in the dirt with my dog Boober and getting up early in the morning to watch "Gilligan's Island" reruns with my brother, completely unaffected by the radical change that was just made in my family. I knew that we didn't live with our father anymore, and that a new guy with a funny mustache had moved in, but I never really gave it a second thought. For the most part, this new guy didn't bother me, so I didn't bother him (or so I thought). For all I knew, this was how all families worked. All kids spent the week with their moms and the weekends with their dads, didn't they? I continued on, naive, not knowing that anything was amiss. I never really had any complaints, until she came along.

I can recall one weekend visit, riding in the back seat with my brother and sister. My father said that we were going to pick someone up. I'm sure my eight-year-old mind wished that we were going to pick up Donatello the Ninja Turtle, or maybe Teddy Ruxpin. We didn't.

"Guys," my father said, "this is Deborah," talking about the woman who had just gotten in the car. She turned to look at the three of us. At that instant I saw beyond her large glasses and saccharine smile, and I knew that for some reason I was not going to like her. I couldn't put my finger on it then, but soon she would give me several very tangible reasons not to like her. Where I was used to being trusted and smiled upon, she was used to skepticism and a raised eyebrow. And where I was used to patience and positive reinforcement, she was used to reproach and invective. My father married her a year or two later. I cried at the wedding, because I was pissed. How could my father marry someone like her?

She had three daughters who I tried to like, but ultimately grew to loathe. They were simply extensions of Deborah, slimy tentacles reaching places that they didn't belong. Their omnipresence and periodic reports to their mother about the actions and whereabouts of my brother, sister, and I made us all feel uncomfortable visiting my father. It was like living in the novel 1984, constantly being watched and fearing the wrath of Big Brother. Our only safe haven was our father. No one dare fuck with us when he was in the room, not even his wife. Unfortunately, he was rarely home, and when he was, he was usually resting in his bedroom or holed up in his den organizing his card collection. He was seldom there to save us, and I slowly began to resent him.

About the time my father remarried, my mom and step-dad moved us hours away. Weekend visits to my father's became holidays and summer stays with his new family. This is when the strain of divorce began to affect me. As time passed I watched my father change from a goofy, smiling superhero into a bitter, petty man. I watched my step-mother turn as fat and ugly as she was on the inside. I watched my mother hate those two, and I was confused as I tried to emulate her while staying loyal to both parents. I watched my step-dad's seemingly infinite patience with me, and I was annoyed at him for being a better dad than my biological one.

My step-sisters and -mother I tolerated, but my faith in my father was waning. When we did visit, we saw less and less of my father, and visiting step-relatives that you don't care for, isn't a very pleasant way to spend a summer. Over the years the summer stays got shorter, and we visited my father fewer holidays. I'm not sure why. And the child support checks arrived later and later, and sometimes not at all. Again, I'm not sure why.

His wife openly complained about how expensive we were, but I didn't realize how much they viewed us as a financial burden, a monetary nuisance, until my freshman year of high school. My brother, a senior, was looking to go to college, and my mom asked my father if he would help pay. He didn't want to. She hired a lawyer to make him pay the state-set "minimum" of child support. He hired a better lawyer that said he didn't have to. At his lawyer's request, his interest in us kids was suddenly renewed. He wanted to see us for every available holiday and all through the summer -- I'm assuming so it wouldn't look so bad that he had thusfar financed very little of our lives. I don't think my brother and sister were, but for a while I was fooled into actually believing that he cared. Then I went to visit him for one last summer, and nothing had changed. None of us went back to him again after that.

Well, that's not entirely true. I think my sister saw him once when she went to visit our grandparents. My brother visited him once or twice, maybe because he felt sorry for our father. But I think for the most part, none of us really cared for him too much anymore. I haven't been back at all. The realization that this / we / family was all just a matter of dollar signs to him hit me pretty hard. Someone putting a pricetag on their love for you makes you feel pretty worthless.

I haven't seen my father in a long time, about seven years, almost a third of my life. And except for a few hastily written emails that I received on my 19th birthday, I haven't heard from him either. Sometimes I feel bad that I miss that asshole. But then again, maybe I shouldn't feel bad. After all, he wasn't a bad man, just bad at loving me.

More than Meets the Eye

Who would win in a fight between Optimus Prime and Voltron? I guess we'll find out in a couple years when they both hit theaters. It'll be "Robots in Disguise" versus "The Defenders of the Universe." Personally, my money's on the Transformers!

Saving Light One Day at a Time

I'm all for making Daylight Savings Time longer. How 'bout you?

Nerd Alert!

I got a new project to keep me busy at work yesterday afternoon. I'm supposed to revamp part of the Language & Literature website (the Language Learning Center pages). For me, this is exciting. Not just because I actually have something to do, but because I love tinkering with websites. I'm not so good with the graphics and design, but I love all the inner-workings.

Luckily, I get to recycle most of the old graphics, so I don't have to worry about that. Tomorrow I'll have to work on updating the content, which will be kinda boring. But today I redesigned the whole back end of the website -- cleaning up the HTML and JavaScript, and adding a splash of PHP (I *heart* PHP!). I just wish that the server the website was on had MySQL. I want to fiddle around with a database using PHP so that I can become better acquainted with how to do all that stuff.

On a side note, Microsoft FrontPage kinda sucks. I'm using it to help with editing the site. It adds a LOT of unnecessary and dirty HTML. I'd rather do it all by hand and have it look nice than use the stupid WYSIWYG editor. The only good thing FrontPage does is help to keep all the files organized.

For the Internet-Savvy Adulterer

This appalled me, both the fact that the website exists, and that it has enough demand to keep it in business.

Chicago

I'm leaving today for Chicago. I'm going to be visiting Stellar and Nic-O for the weekend. I think we might be going to a Renaissance Fair and then some big party that Stellar told me about. It should be a fun vacation.

Wrong Place

This article from Slashdot sounds like it belongs in The Onion.

Imaginary

| Superhero | Part 4 |

She saw him in crowd. She didn't know why her eye was drawn to him. In his plaid button-down shirt and worn blue jeans, he did not stick out of the crowd. He wasn't attractive. Not to say that he was ugly, but his long nose and mouth slacking open didn't exactly rev Miranda's engine. Nevertheless, she stood on the street corner among the crowd, waiting to follow the rest of the flock into the crosswalk. She noticed his poor posture and awkward gait as he walked toward her in the adjacent crosswalk. He seemed like a thousand other people she had seen in this city, but there was still something about him that made her continue to stare.

A burly man in a brown business suit walking the opposite direction smashed into a long-haired twenty-something hippie-looking chick in front of the long-nosed man in the plaid shirt. The burly man bowled right over the long-haired girl, spinning only slightly from the impact, and shouted something angrily at the young woman, who was knocked to her knees by the much larger man. The guy in the plaid shirt stopped behind her and looked over his shoulder at the man in the brown business suit. Without an explanation the man in the brown business suit dropped his suitcase and began screaming. He batted at some invisible attacker on his shirt and pulled at his tie which only served to choke him. The man flailed wildly and pulled at the tightening tie on his neck. The others in the crosswalk tried their best to avoid him; irritated faces began to appear in the crowd. The burly man continued his hysterics until he stumbled into an even burlier man who grabbed him by the collar and threw him down onto the ground. The man in the brown business suit immediately stopped his screaming. He lay on the ground wide-eyed and bewildered, breathing heavily.

Miranda looked back to the man in the plaid shirt. He had apparently been watching the man in the brown suit as well. He turned back to the young woman in front of him, who was collecting the contents of her hemp tote bag that had been spilled onto the street. He reached down, picking up a small box of some sort. As he was about to offer it to its owner, she snatched it out of his hands and quickly shoved her possession back into her bag. She stood up, gripped her bag tightly, and quickly resumed crossing the street. The man in the plaid shirt stood still for a second watching the long-haired girl walk away, until he was nudged from behind by another pedestrian. He continued through the crosswalk.

The crowd waiting with Miranda on her corner began to cross the street, but Miranda followed the man in the plaid shirt with her eyes. Closer up, he looked much younger than she had first thought, and Miranda saw sadness in his eyes. As he passed only a few feet from him, she had the urge to follow him. She gave in to her urge.

She followed him into a corner store, watching him from the magazine rack. He lazily walked to the cooler, picked up a quart of milk and a shrink-wrapped sandwich. On his way up to the counter, he picked up a can of Li'l Smokies. I hope that's not his dinner. Her stomach felt empathetic for his.

At the counter, Plaid Shirt asked the clerk for a pack of cigarettes. The clerk rang up the total. Plaid Shirt opened his wallet, dug around, and pulled out nothing and set it on the counter. Plaid Shirt shrugged with embarrassment. Miranda moved over to the candy rack to get a better view.

The clerk gave Plaid Shirt a brief look of disdain, picked up the imaginary tender and punched some buttons on his register. The drawer sprung open and the clerk counted out nearly eighty-five dollars in change and handed it to Plaid Shirt.

Miranda was confused. She grabbed a pack of Skittles and stepped up next to Plaid Shirt at the counter. She looked back and forth from the man in the plaid shirt to the clerk. As he finished organizing his money in his wallet, he noticed Miranda's sideways glances. He quickly shoved his items into his pockets and walked out of the store.

Miranda was staring after Plaid shirt, when the man behind the counter asked, "Hey, you gonna buy something or what?" Miranda looked up at him, put her candy on the counter, reached into her purse, pulled out nothing and set in onto the counter. The clerk looked at her with disbelief. Miranda stood her ground, looking from where she had set her money back up to the clerk. Finally, with a sigh the clerk said, "Sorry, lady, we don't take imaginary money here, only real cash."

She squinted her eyes and looked at him. "Nevermind, I don't want it." Miranda quickly walked out the door.

The clerk shook his head, "I hate working here."

Pissed Off

I guess you can only piss on your friends so long before they tell you to piss off.

Getting a Good Education, Duh!

As I was walking into the building about half-an-hour ago, getting back from my lunch break, a fairly good-sized rodent (I'm guessing about 10 lbs. or so) ran by me and into the bushes. I think it was a woodchuck. What the fuck is a woodchuck doing on campus?

Online Onslaught III

Come witness the carnage at Online Onslaught III. Vote off your least favorite bloggers until only one remains. I already got kicked off for unsportsmanlike conduct, but it should still be a good time.

It's a Lie

Found while perusing my cell phone's notepad function:

"It's A Lie Until I Believe It ...joe"

I'm assuming "...joe" is Pancake Wrangler, because that sounds like something he would say.

God Hates Fags

This makes my heart scowl. But this makes my heart giggle.

something

Sometimes i dont want o be me ,and sometimes i want to be normal, but i wonder if norml is better than an emotionless, drunken bastard. At least i've got character.

Easy 'A'

I found a picture from my senior year of high school, taken during my "independent study" in Mrs. Meneely's art class. This picture is of us trying to look like we're actually doing something, but I'm pretty sure we're not. Basically, Brian (left), Justin (back turned) and I just jacked off the entire hour, completing approximately 5 crappy projects each over the course of an entire school year. Ah, the good ol' days!

Flowers

| Superhero | Part 3 |

The delivery man knocked on the door and looked down at the slip of paper to confirm the address. Yup, Room 425. As he waited for an answer, he eyed the two policemen standing one door down, at 423. They knocked on the door and it opened within seconds. "Ma'am, we're here about a noise complaint," said the taller officer.

"Thank god you're here, officers," said the old woman from inside 423. "It's the man next door. He was screaming and making such a ruckus.

"Thank you, we'll check it out," the shorter officer assured her. "Please, stay in your apartment, ma'am." The old woman kept her head poked out of her doorway while the two officers turned towards the delivery man. Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, the delivery man looked away and knocked on 425's door again.

The two policemen approached and the taller one said, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just delivering these flowers for a...," he looked at the slip again, "...a Brandon Collins." He offered his slip from the flower shop as proof.

The shorter officer gave it a cursory inspection and then handed it back. "Please, stand aside."

The taller officer pounded on the door and shouted, "Mr. Collins, this is the police. We've had a report of screams coming from your apartment. Please, open the door." There was no response.

The delivery guy asked the shorter cop somewhat excited, "Is this dude in trouble?"

"Please, stand back sir."

"Mr. Collins, this is the police. If you do not let us in, we will be forced to enter your apartment."

Smiling at the prospect of some excitement in his otherwise boring day, the delivery man said, "Sweet, this is going to be awesome!"

The old woman from 423 piped up, "Officers, I think he might be hurt, he was screaming bloody murder."

The door from 428 opened and a balding man with a mustache stepped out into the hall and inquired, "'Ey, what's goin' on out here?"

The delivery man turned and said with enthusiasm, "The cops are gonna break down this dude's door!"

The shorter officer, annoyed at the growing audience, spoke, "Everyone stay inside your apartments." Turning to the flower delivery man, he said, "I'm going to need you to take a few steps back." As if he hadn't spoken at all, no one moved.

"Mr. Collins, this is your last warning. If you do not open the door in five seconds, I will be forced to kick it in!"

"What'd this guy do?" asked the mustachioed man.

"Fuck if I know," replied the delivery man.

"Mr. Collins, we're entering your apartment now." The taller officer tried the door. It was locked. He took a step back and kicked in the door. He looked back at his partner and said, "I'll look around, you take care of these guys." His partner nodded. The taller officer removed unbuttoned his holster, placed his hand on the handle, and cautiously walked through the door.

The delivery man tried to look over the shorter officer's shoulder into the apartment, "Do you think he's still in there?" The shorter officer didn't say a word, but listened for his partner.

Ten seconds later he heard a gasp. "Holy shit!"

"How's it going in there?" the shorter officer said over his shoulder.

"Carl, keep everyone out. I'll call an ambulance. My God, there's so much blood!"

Pictures of Shorelines

If you insist on pictures of shorelines
then I insist on pages of your lines
meant for me,
to be sent to me.
Remember watching the storms from the lifeguard stand.
Remember feeling the tingling in my fingertips
when I touched your lips.
And I recall how you sat on the same side of me,
it always seemed that you'd always be on my side.
You're my best side.

And it's early June, so the sand's still dry,
and you have got the boldest eyes,
and I can't help but think it's right,
that inside you it's me I'm finding.
And I'm still waiting.
And it's early June, so the sand's still dry,
and the storm off shore is not far behind.
And I'm still waiting.

And sometimes you don't say a thing for a long while.
And the ships off shore hold stories that we'd make.
And sometimes we are held at bay by these miles.
But less of you is more than I can take.

And the moments that we've shared could last a lifetime.
And the faith I have in us will keep you near.
And several of these miles placed in between us
mean several of these words being sent by mail.
I hope this letter finds you well.

--Further Seems Forever

Regret Later

I'll have later in life to regret not regretting right now.

Gospel of Thomas

I ran across The Gospel of Thomas the other day. And here's a little info. on what it actually is. It's a pretty interesting / confusing read, but here are my favorite verses:

28 Jesus said, "I took my stand in the midst of the world, and in flesh I appeared to them. I found them all drunk, and I did not find any of them thirsty. My soul ached for the children of humanity, because they are blind in their hearts and do not see, for they came into the world empty, and they also seek to depart from the world empty.

But meanwhile they are drunk. When they shake off their wine, then they will change their ways."

113 His disciples said to him, "When will the kingdom come?"

"It will not come by watching for it. It will not be said, 'Look, here!' or 'Look, there!' Rather, the Father's kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people don't see it."

Visual Aid

I finally scanned my favorite picture of Stellar. She's the one getting kissed by Sean, sticking her tongue out. I'm in the background looking like a tool.

Force 52

My friend Luke is starting a web comic. Check it out . . .

. . . OR ELSE!

Run While You Still Can

Mr. McBastard: I never thought that I'd be excited about office supplies.

Marie: He's turning into us, Joyce.

Joyce: You're too young!

Taste in Friends

I have good taste in friends. But my friends obviously don't have good taste in friends, because they're friends with me.

I Hate Stairs

I haven't lifted weights (or done any physically taxing activity, for that matter) for about two years.

For the past two days after work, Pfaff and I have been going to the Rec Center. I did squats the first day. My legs were a little sore the next day. Yesterday I did dead lifts. Today my legs are indeed dead. I can't run, it hurts to sit down / stand up, and it takes me about half-an-hour to walk down a flight of stairs.

The rest of me is sore, but my legs are fucking killing me.

Crappy Photos of Paradise (and Asses)

I made a slideshow of pictures from my awesome trip to Florida. It only has about a fourth of the pictures taken. Check back in a week or so, and I should have all the rest up and ready to gaze upon in wonder (at why there are only two pictures of the beach and the rest of us putting our asses on each other in the hotel room).

Bloodletting

| Superhero | Part 2 |

The phone rang. Brandon lay stretched out on his bed. His entire body was swollen. His skin was flushed, bright red. He was so uncomfortably hot that he lay naked on top of the sheets.

The phone rang. It had been a week since he had been to the doctor, two weeks since his first visit. After a week of still pissing blood, he had gone back to get a different perscription. This one wasn't working either.

The phone rang. He did not have a urinary tract infection. He didn't know what he had, but he knew that something much worse was wrong with his body. He woke up every morning with blood stains on his pillow. And a few days ago he had started to shit blood. Just blood. He hadn't been eating much; he didn't have the energy. His muscles ached. His joints were stiff. His whole body was puffy and burning. Even his penis was erect and swollen, even though sex was the furthest thing from his mind. His head throbbed.

The phone rang. He had had a headache for a week and a half. His head pounded. Brandon felt like his brain was going to crack through his skull and leak out onto his bed. Every miniscule movement he made, every tilt of the head, made him feel like his head was being bludgeoned, and tears would well up in his eyes. He wished the pounding would stop, or that he would die.

The phone rang. The answering machine picked it up. A voice flooded into his apartment.

"Hey, Brandon, Bran-done! It's Tom. Where ya been, man? You've missed almost two weeks of work. Everybody's asking about you. Are you still down and out with that UTI bullshit? C'mon, man, who are you trying to fool? Anyway, the boss said that he's been trying to get ahold of you, but you haven't been returning his calls. You need to call him back, man. I think he's getting pissed." With much effort, Brandon lifted himself up and sat at the edge of his bed. He panted and moaned. A sledgehammer firmly tapped his head like a metronome.

"You missed a hell of a time at the bars last weekend! We saw Kelly out at Swashbucklers. She was looking as skanky as ever. Oh, and Lindsey, Lindsey from Payroll, she was out that night, too. I hope you don't mind, but I gave her your address. I think she's going to send you flowers or some shit. Man, as soon as you are feeling even a little bit better, I would not hesitate to call her up and tap that shit! She wants your rod, man. Anyway, call me sometime and let me know what's going on. See ya."

Brandon slowly made his way to the bathroom. Every step was a train wreck in his head. He stepped through the doorway and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. They were almost completely red. And tears of blood trickled down his rosy cheeks.

Brandon looked at his face. The pain had to stop. It was puffy and red, as if the blood was just sloshing beneath the surface, searching for a leak to spring forth from. The pain had to stop. Brandon wanted to let it out. The pain had to stop. He opened the medicine cabinet and searched for something sharp. The pain had to stop. His eyes fell on a small pair of cuticle scissors.

The pain had to stop. It had to stop. It had to stop. It had to. It had to stop. The pain had to stop. The pain would not stop.

With all the skill of a drunken surgeon, Brandon plunged the scissors into his temple. He screamed and closed his eyes. He forced the scissors shut, making a half-inch incision in the skin. Brandon dropped the scissors and fell to his knees. He screamed again, and vomited. Blood.

Blood flooded down the side of his head. It came in waves matching his heartbeat and coated his right shoulder.

The pain that was in his head, the pain that was his head did not go away.

Brandon picked up the blood-covered scissors and made a mirror-image incision, accompanied by more screams. He wearily stood up. In the mirror it looked like he was wearing a vest of blood. He calmly stood gazing at himself, at his wounds. The cuts on either side of his head bubbled like geysers with every beat of his heart. They showed no signs of stopping. As he looked, he noticed that his face was becoming less swollen.

Maybe I just have too much blood. His grip on the scissors tightened.

Screaming, he cut himself down each wrist and watched the blood spring out in small, unicolor rainbows. Screaming, he watched the blood spread down his legs and run between his toes. Soon his screaming turned into a sickening, pain-wracked laughter.

Suddenly he noticed that the pain in his head was gone. He looked in the mirror and blinked. There was nothing. His mind was empty. His head was numb. He smiled. And then he wretched at the sight of himself, covered almost completely in his own blood. He looked like something from a horror movie. He threw up in the sink. Blood.

Brandon looked around his bathroom. Almost every inch of his white tile floor was now red. How can one person bleed this much? His wounds showed no sign of stopping. Brandon felt the numbness in his head turn into a faintness. He finally began to panic.

Text Message from Stellar

I took more i tried. I'm not with him when when go home now.

12:53A Sun Jun05

Nerd's Eye View

I'm trying something (not quit) new (or original).

Pissing Blood

| Superhero | Part 1 |

Brandon stepped up to the urinal, unzipped his pants, and gently tugged his penis out of his underwear. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed as he felt urine coursing through his urethra.

As the flow decreased, he looked down into the urinal, only to notice his piss was oddly colored, swirling down the drain like pink lemonade. "What the fuck?" he mumbled. The man several urinals down gave him a curious sideways glance. Brandon's stream wound down and got darker, until a few drops of blood trickled from his penis. "Shit," said a little louder. The other man zipped up and quickly shuffled out of the restroom.

"There's blood in my urine," he said in hushed tones over the phone. He stood up and looked over the walls of his cubicle. His doctor asked him if he felt any pain, any discomfort or stinging when it happened. "No. Is that a good sign?" His doctor reassured him and told him to come in the following morning. Brandon gently set the phone in its cradle and sat back in his office chair. It was a bit hard for him to concentrate the rest of the day.

Brandon impatiently sat in the waiting room at his doctor's office. He looked up as the receptionist came into the room. She looked over at him, then at a mother and small boy in the opposite corner. "Conner, Dr. Tyler is ready to see you now." The mother stood up with her son and led him into the back. As she was leaving, the receptionist said to Brandon, "It will only be a minute, and Dr. Tyler will be with you." Brandon nodded OK but thought to himself, This kid better have fucking stigmata and not the sniffles; I'm fucking bleeding internally here. He was sweating and wiped his forehead with his palm. When he removed his hand it was a bit pink.

"So, Brandon, how have you been?" Dr. Taylor idly chatted as he took Brandon's pulse.

"I've been pissing blood. How do you think I've been?"

"And you said there was no pain or discomfort?" the doctor continued.

"No. It just feels like regular pee," he explained.

Dr. Taylor stopped and look Brandon in the eye as if this was significant, but only replied, "Hmm," before opening Brandon's file.

Like an uncomfortable first date the two sat in silence. The doctor read Brandon's medical history, and Brandon waited anxiously for the doctor to say something, anything. Finally, Dr. Taylor stood up and walked to the door. As he was about to step out he turned to Brandon and, almost as an afterthought, said, "It's probably just a urinary tract infection, Brandon. We'll take a urine sample and draw some blood, just in case. More than likely some amoxicillin will clear that right up in a couple of days. The nurse will be right with you."

Brandon took the rest of the day off work. He ate some cereal, drank some cranberry juice, watched cartoons, and pissed more blood.

Brandon awoke early the next morning, coughing. He tried to open his eyes, but they were sealed shut. He felt them with his fingers and found a thin layer encrusting them closed. He scraped at them frantically, until he could see. Through a haze of confusion and discomfort, Brandon stumbled to the bathroom, wheezing and choking. At the sink, he coughed up a throat-full of phlegm. It was dark red, almost black. He looked in the mirror and saw his eyes ringed in dried blood.

Some Quiz

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

At Work

Sometimes I get bored at work -- my cushy sinecure at the Language & Literature Division Office on campus -- because usually by the time my bosses go to lunch I've finished all of the mini-projects that they had planned for me that day. So, after lunch I mull around the office looking for something to organize or label.

Is it weird that I'm waiting for the day when my bosses tell me to reorganize the files in the back room? I've already done it once before, last summer, and it was a long and dull task, but it kept me busy for a week. And this past winter break I organized the supply closet, but I really wouldn't mind doing that again. Anything to keep me from sitting at a desk, staring at the wall.

Or maybe I should just take longer on the tasks that my bosses give to me. They're always amazed at the speed at which I complete them. The next time they ask me to type something up, it should take me all day.

There was really not point to any of this. It was just something to do to pass the time. This is going to be a long summer.

Nic-O-Bob Nuffins

Thank you. I hope you know that you mean so much more to me than I ever would mention. It is because you don't shake reluctant words and unfamiliar emotions out of my mouth like some others do (;P) that I've never said so. We've always had an unspoken bond. Thank you for being silent with me.

Thank you for missing me when I wasn't around and being annoyed when I was. Thank you for being easy to make fun of and hard to offend. Thank you for laughing at my lame jokes and shaking your head at my good ones. Thank you for being right in front of my face, and thank you for standing in the background. Thank you for playing second fiddle, and thank you for singing lead vocals. Thank you.

Abandoned

As if having most of my friends leave me in Kirksville wasn't bad enough, even my cat abandoned me. When I got back from Florida he apparently ran away. It's been four days since I've been back, and I haven't seen him yet.

I guess this whole experience has taught me something, though. Sometimes people (and cats) slip in and out of your life. Without warning they are here, then gone. You can't take anyone for granted, because tomorrow they might not be around. It's too bad I didn't learn this lesson before everyone left me.

Recap

This is what has happened in the past two weeks:

Finals. They weren't too bad this semester. That's about all there is to say about that.

All my friends graduated. Well, not all of them, but all of my friends from freshman year. Stellar, Nico, Jaysix, Pfaff, and Sammy are gone. Sometimes I was mad that they were leaving me. Sometimes I was jealous that they are starting the rest of their lives. Sometimes I was sad that they wouldn't be around anymore. I am so selfish.

I went to a bandfest with Magster, Steve D, BJ, and some of BJ's friends. The ride down was a little sad (I had just said 'goodbye' to Stellar), but stoned Magster put a smile on my face that lasted the entire weekend. I especially liked her licking ranch dressing off my face and 'dancing' with her to Breaking Benjamin. It was a very Maggie trip. I hope I never get tired of that girl.

Promptly after I got back from the bandfest, I packed up for a roadtrip with my roommates from freshman year (Jaysix, Pfaff, and Sammy). We went to Florida. Mother fucking Panama City Beach, Florida. It rocked. My favorite part was getting high with Jaysix and then playing in the waves. The pictures from the trip are soon to come.

Well, now I'm back, tanned, and missing my old friends. Luckily, quite a few of my fraternity brothers are taking some classes this summer, so this summer I won't be totally lonely.

Well, that's Half of May in Review. I'll probably be updating pretty regularly this summer since I'll have nothing better to do. Seeya later, folks!

Promise

Yet another day seems like it’s wasted
You don’t feel you’re any closer to the prize
A dead end job where there’s no future
Praying that tomorrow things won’t be this way
Things will get better this I promise you
And I know that you won’t feel this way forever
Things will get better this I promise you
And I know loneliness won’t last forever
Yet another day, another tired morning
You’re catching up to your intentions
You’re thinking life has to be easier than this
Maybe tomorrow things won’t be this way
Loneliness won’t last forever
I promise with all that’s in me to leave this emptiness behind

--Spoken

Another Meme

[taken from Stellar, who took it from someone else, who took it from someone else...]

Name six things in your purse/wallet
* Various useless receipts
* $28
* Hastings gift card
* Concervation Employee's Credit Union membership card
* My crappy new Drivers Liscence that is not nearly as cool as my old one in which I had a 'fro
* A credit card that constantly reminds me that I will surely be in debt for the rest of my life

Name five things that made you happy this week
* Having Dr. Woehlk, my boss, ask me if I was alright and saying that I was "a good kid"
* Reading one of Stellar's posts
* Five-dollar All-You-Can-Drink at Woody's
* Spending almost an etire day with The Magster
* Hanging out with Justin & Pfaff

Name four things you'd like to do before the end of your lifetime
* Live
* Write a novel
* Have a novel published
* Travel through Europe

Name three things you plan on doing this weekend
* Superhero party (I'm going as Megaman)
* Lloyd's party in Kimball's
* Working

Name two things you'd buy for yourself if you had the money
* A new car
* A new computer

Name one good thing about the last person you talked to
* Pfaff and I just have complimentary senses of humor. And when you get us together, we can entertain ourselves for hours just talking about all sorts of pointless bullshit.

Straightforward and Disjointed

OK, fuck that last post. Here's the deal: I'm not happy. And that's the problem.

Recently, I've been driving around. Just driving. Alone. And thinking. And that's a metaphor for my life right now. I'm aimlessly driving around without a definite destination. I drive around for hours, not getting anywhere, and eventually, I give up on finding whatever it is I'm looking for, and I head back home disappointed.

I'm tired of being unhappy. I'm tired of pretending I'm not. I'm tired of not telling anyone what I'm thinking. And I'm tired of writing a goddamn blog post whenever I have something significant to say. But here I am.

My heart pounds, my legs are shaking, and my teeth both tingle and feel numb at the same time. It's like being on cocaine, without the euphoria. In fact, if there is an exact opposite of 'euphoria,' that's what it feels like. I don't cry from eyes, but from somewhere deep in my skull and far down in my chest. The windshield wipers can't clear away a torrential rain of tears. My foot shakes on the gas pedal.

I shouldn't be sitting in silence with my friends and then crying alone. I'm so distant, sometimes even from myself. I even tricked myself into believing that I was fine.

With a lump in my throat I explained something like the truth to a man at the University Counseling Services today. He nodded at all the right places and asked me all the cliche questions a councilor should. Then he told me, in not so many words, that the only thing that was keeping me from being happy was me. I came to realize that I lack focus: Instead of being unhappy in general, I should find those things that specifically make me unhappy, and kick those things' asses.

Well, I found one. I feel stupid, because this one's pretty hard to miss. It's been right in front of me, that huge fucking wall that I've been erecting, brick by brick, since (I'm guessing) 7th grade, but it may have been before that, and I just don't remember. It's pretty big now, and I don't even know how thick. So, it's not like I didn't know it was there, I just didn't see it as a problem. It protected me. From everyone else. The problem was, it couldn't protect me from me.

The USC guy also told me something else important. I don't remember how he put it, but here's my take on it: Don't try to fix everything all at once. There is no magical Happy button that makes everything all better. Nothing -- no place, no drug, no friend, no girl -- will make me completely happy. I'm responsible for that part. They might help, but I have to be happy with myself to be completely happy.

'Happy' is such a stupid word now.

I continued to drive. No more crying. I was done with that shit. I pressed down on the gas and flew down the highway, faster and faster still. I crashed into that wall around me. I wrecked my car and only made a crack in it. But I will get out. Eventually.

Broken Promise

I told myself that I wouldn't do it, censor myself. But if there's one thing that I've learned about myself over the years it's that I can't keep promises, especially one's made to myself.

So, anyway, I've been meaning to post something for a while now, but never got the guts to do it. So then, I decided to make one of those ambiguous posts about it, but that would just lead to people asking me a whole bunch of annoying questions and prying and whatnot.

Then I came upon a good idea: I will, instead of actually making the post, just answer the questions that I'm sure would have been generated from publishing it!

So, yes, this post is about you. No, it really doesn't matter that much, I just needed to vent. No, you don't need to apologize. And, yes, you should probably stop asking me questions about it.

Hierarchy of Crappy Beer

6. PBR
5. Natty
4. High Life
3. Stag
2. Beast Ice

And still the reining champion and my all-time favorite crappy beer:
1. Keystone

Good Day

Do you ever just have one of those days where everything goes your way? For instance, you wake up with a smile and a kiss, you make it to work on time, you don't have to go to class, you spend time with a pretty girl, and you drink moonshine with your friends while playing video games. That, my friends, is the definition of a 'good day.'

Leaving

He stood up from the couch. He had been sitting too comfortably, too near her. "I don't want to do this anymore," he said, and reached for his ball cap on the coffee table.

"We can watch a different movie, dude," she said, surprised at his sudden outburst. "Where are you going?"

"No, not the movie. This," he said pointing at where he had been sitting on the couch.

She was confused. "The couch?"

"No. Nevermind. I gotta go."

She stood up and followed him as he left the living room. "What are you talking about?"

He stopped and turned suddenly. She was following so close behind that she almost bumped into him. "I'm talking about us."

"What about us?"

"Whenever I'm around you, all I want is to kiss you."

She took a step back. "I thought we agreed to just be friends."

"No, you wanted to 'just be friends' and I went along with it because I wanted to be near you. But now I see that it wasn't a good idea, because I don't want to be 'just friends,' and it's killing me every time sit next to you and smell your perfume, or give you a hug, or look into your eyes, or accidentally touch your hand. I just don't want to do it any more. I can't pretend that I'm not attracted to you." He was done with his speech. It hadn't gone exactly like he'd planned in his head. In his head he hadn't been as upset. And, of course, in his head, she had thrown herself at him half-way through. He sighed and turned towards the door.

"So, you're just leaving?" she asked.

"Unless you've got a better idea."

"I'm sorry," she said, genuinely empathetic.

He opened the door and stepped through. Before he shut it behind himself he said, "That's my line."

Lost

[instead of paying attention in class]

The small boy played with his big Tonka dump-truck in the sand box, hauling loads of dirt over dunes and through valleys in the burning desert heat. As he dumped his truck's precious cargo into the impressive and ever-growing pile in the corner of the box, he saw his mother standing a few feet off, watching him play. She stood one arm crossing her chest, hand tucked under her other arm with the other hand covering her mouth. The boy noticed a strange look on his mother's face. Was she scared? Was she angry with him? Was she impressed with the amazing pile of sand he had started? He tested the water.

"Do you see how big a pile I made, Mommy?" She seemed not to hear him. He spoke a little louder, "Mommy, lookie what I did. It's big, huh?"

His mother slowly nodded her head. She removed her hand from her mouth and tried to say something but was choked up. She cleared her throat and nodded.

The small boy stared back at his mother for a moment and stopped playing with his truck. She didn't seem impressed with his achievement. "Mommy, are you made at me?" he looked down, expecting a talking-to.

He heard his mother sob once and then quickly say in a strained voice, "No, honey. No, I'm not mad." She took a few steps toward him and knelt at the edge of the sand box. "I . . . ." she stopped. Tears formed in her eyes. "Come here, Joel, I need to talk to you."

The boy still unsure cautiously crawled through the sand, towing his truck behind him. He was frightened; he'd never seen his mother act so strangely and he didn't know what to expect. When he reached the edge of the box near his mother once again began loading the back of his truck with hot, dry sand. He didn't look his mother in the eye.

"Honey," she started, then paused, "your father . . ." she thought for a moment and brushed Joel's bushy hair out of his eyes. "Daddy won't be coming home tonight."

Not understanding the significance of this, he played along with his mother, "Will he come home tomorrow?"

She started to cry. "No, honey, he won't be coming home tomorrow. He won't ever be coming home. Daddy is lost." Through a lake of tears, she helped her son fill the back of his truck with sand.

"Where did you lose him?" he asked, thinking of all the places he looks when his loses his toys.

"I didn't lose him. Someone took him from me, from us."

"Where did they take him?" The dump trunk was full, but Joel decided not to dump it in the big pile on the other side of the box. He seemed tethered to his mother. He dumped his truck where it sat, wondering where his father could possibly be.

"Sometimes people are take away to a place where they can't come back from." She continued to cry softly. After a few moments she spoke again. "Sometimes people are taken to Heaven . . . when they die."

The young boy looked up at his mother finally. "Did my daddy die?"

[the end of class]

Surprised I'm Still Alive

Apparently, people really enjoyed Alumni Reunion. I'm just glad it's over.

Friday night was the Bar Crawl. I was stressed out, but everyone else seemed to be having a good time. One of my guys got kicked out of Dukum Inn for having a fake, and one got kicked out of Il Spazio for breaking a glass. I was upset, but no one else seemed to care. The bars were about to close, so I decided to walk back to Kimball's alone, and hoped that everyone made it back alive.

On my way, Maggie and the Pirates saw me and picked me up. We went to the Pirate's house where I kept stealing Maggie's beer. For some reason I decided to fight her. I threw her on a couch, but she jumped back up and jacked me in the face twice. I could have taken an incredibly more punishing beating, considering the state I was in, but I guess she thought that I'd had enough. What a pussy.

Saturday morning the demolition guys came and knocked over the house. It was a most glorious hour. Immediately following that someone gave me a bottle of wine, and I drank deeply of it. From that point until I had to work at 6pm I drank. Work was interesting. After work I was sobering up and had a hang-over. It's interesting already being hung-over at 9:30 at night. I hung out at Kimball's with the younger guys while the alumni were hitting up the bars again. We were all dead. Drinking all day sure is exhausting.

I went to Stellar's. I started drinking some more. Maggie came over for a bit which was nice. I lose track of time at this point. I left to go back to Kimball's, and I couldn't drive, so I just walked. It was cold. On my way over, Erica from work picked me up and gave me a ride. I think she was concerned for me because she called me later to make sure that I was alright.

So, some time after that (again, I'm not sure on the time at this point), when people were starting to leave, I walked over to Maggie's to see if she was home. There is a blank spot in my memory right there. Fast forward to 5am: I wake up in the stairwell of her apartment building. My head hurts and I'm cold, but at least I don't feel sick. You have to look for the silver lining. I try Maggie's door, but it's locked, so I walk back to Kimball's where I can at least sleep on a couch, but it is also locked up. So, I decide to trek all the way back across town to Mel's to get my car. It's still cold.

I finally get back to my apartment at 5:45am, only to find Ronnie in my bed. I guess he thought that I wasn't coming back (and my bed is decidedly more comfy than the couch). I decided to let him sleep there and I just hit the couch myself.

Surprisingly, after all of this, I still managed to wake up this morning and make it to work on time.

Baby-sitter

This weekend is Delta Chi Alumni Reunion, and guess who is in charge. That's right, me. So, basically, I have to baby-sit 20 drunken twenty-five to thirty-year-olds and make sure they don't embarass us or themselves. This should be interesting.

Birthday Keg

Oh, how I have missed you, Keg Night Stand! I'm sorry that I left you behind. You were always a constant reminder of that incredible 21st birthday over a year ago. I'm glad we're back together.

The Shit that Matters

Justin: here comes another sappy moment, but I've got to say, I've really glad we both ended up up here
Justin: for all the people I've met in college, I still end up talking to you about the shit that matters
CynicalMcBastard: awww
Justin: yup

The Intersection of Hwy 6 and Junior Year

Party because I didn't want to write a paper and partly because I've been kinda emo lately, I did something I haven't done in a long time. I drove. I just drove.

I ended up on Highway 6, the road I used to take home . . . when I still went home. I became really homesick all of the sudden. I wanted to go to sleep in my old bed.

And wake up the next morning to the sound of my mom's knees cracking as she walked down the hall to the kitchen to get her coffee. I would get up, take a shower, then plop back down on my bed and pass out. I would wake up 20 minutes before school started, scramble to get my books, and jump in my car. I'd speed down Highway B at 80mph so I wouldn't be late. I'd get to school just as the bell rang and run to Pre-Calculus. I wouldn't sweat that I probably didn't have that day's homework done; I'd just do it in class. The same would be true for my next two classes. Junior year was a breeze.

Fourth hour was my time. I would go to 'help' Mrs. Breeden with her speech class as her assistant. Mrs. Breeden was in Kazahkstan for a large portion of that year adopting Mia, so I got to do whatever I wanted. Most likely I would just go to lunch for both shifts. I might stay in the Green Room with the Freaks: Adam, Luke, Brian, and Brandon. I'd listen to their tales of publishing thier own 'zine, making movies, and planning parties. They would be gone after that year, and I, thier apprentice, would be left without any mentors.

Or I might go to my mom's office and hang out with the drama nerds: Mark and Marlena (and their creepy relationship), Stephen, Ryan, and Joe. That was back when my mom thought the world of me, and loved my friends.

Or I might go the Commons and hang out with my popular friends: Clair, the future Homecoming Queen who hated the title. I would take her to Prom that next year. Lauren, the stuck-up prude / track star. She was so haughty and boring, and only I laughed at her lame jokes, mostly because they were so bad. Bart, who would move away half-way through the next year, leaving me depressed. He was more than a friend, he was a role-model. Jerry, the bumbling, lovable lug. He was always so "melonlochy." Zack, who could somehow pull off being a prick and a nice guy at the same time. And, of course, Kim. I had had a crush on her for two years and would for two more. After finally gathering up the courage, I would eventually ask her out twice (once to Prom) only to be rejected twice.

After lunch I would get on the bus with Kim to go meet Justin at the Vo-Tech, where Mr. Marley taught Physics. While Marley tried to teach us, Squeak, Justin, and I would teach Kim how to do the homework. Somehow she got a better grade than all of us. Only feeling slightly guilty for taking advantage of Marley's too-niceness, we would skip out of class early and buy snacks in the breakroom.

After we were shuttled back to the High School, Kim and I would go to Journalism, where we would quickly scribble out an article for that weeks newspaper, so we could go down to Mrs. Meneely's class and bug Justin and Kyle in the back room. Watch them play putty-ball or play with the extruder. Sometimes we might take outings, walking out of the building as the principal Mr. May watched us leave. Kim was supposed to go to Prom with Kyle that year, and that was why she couldn't go with me when I asked, but he changed his mind, so they didn't end up gonig together; however, I didn't know this at the time and so I asked Claire.

After school, I'd stick around for Academic Team practice. I was on Varsity that year. Or I might go to a play rehearsal. We put on A Midsummer Night's Dream (I was Puck) and The Boy's Next Door (I was co-stage manager and Clarence).

Then I would hang out at Marlena and Brandon's house for an hour or so before going off to work at Wal-Mart.

After I got done at Wal-Mart I would wearily drive back home and slide into my bed.

I woke up half-way home. I pulled into the first driveway I came to and turned around. Lighting a cigarette, I started back to Kirksville. The headlights did a poor job of lighting the way home on the dark highway in the moonless night.

Windy

I got some stuff published in Windfall, Truman's literary journal. It's not what I would have picked as the best of what I submitted, but I guess I should feel proud that someone thought it worth publishing.

Beautiful Cacophony

Me: this shell of flesh, pock-marked and scarred, the surprisingly resilient inner workings of which are slowly being poisoned by voluntarily absorbed toxins and the ever-present workings of time. This "person," this "being" who exists physically in every (as far as is known) dimension of the universe and whose coordinates are conveniently labeled "Cynical McBastard" is "me."

But beyond the physical, inside the skull of this creature, it is much harder to define what is "me." Inside there is an inharmonious chorus of voices.

Am I the voice who whispers that this shell is worthless, that its life is insignificant in a supposed "grand scheme"? Am I the quiet voice who loves and wants nothing more than to be loved back? Am I the voice who hangs itself everyday? Am I the voice who incomprehensibly shouts for reason and logic? Am I the convincing voice who is disappointed with this shell and demands change? Am I the voice who sleeps? Am I the laughing voice who finds humor in everything, especially the other voices? Am I the voice who sobs softly so that the other voices don't notice? Am I the voice who claims to remember a time before all the voices started speaking? Am I the voice that doesn't care?

Or am I the monotone voice that has somehow gained control of the mouth of this creature; the voice who, when asked what the other voices are saying, can't comprehend a single message in the beautiful cacophony, and so it lies and says that there are no other voices?

Good Vs. Evil

CynicalMcbastard: sometimes looking at voodoo, he's so cute and it's hard to believe that he is satan's personal lap-cat
Stellar: LOL
Stellar: I would say he just needs more socialization, but I think he'd just start eating people
CynicalMcbastard: haha
Stellar: My cat, on the other hand, is the most angelic, sweet boy that ever walked the earth
CynicalMcbastard: but remember when HE was a holy terror?
Stellar: It's weird that there's no thunder when the cats are together. You'd think the cosmos would have more of a reaction when good and evil collide
Stellar: Yeah, but that was when he still had balls
Stellar: Voodoo's are gone and he's still evil
CynicalMcbastard: hahahhahahahaha!

Crying

I remember crying once with my biological father. I must have been about ten years old or so. We were watching a sad movie about a guy who was dying of cancer, I think. He saw me straining to hold back tears. He told me that it was alright to cry, that it was good to cry and hug someone and just let it out. I hugged him and cried forever.

Even though I was crying, that is one of my fondest memories of my father, and I think that was the only bit of advice he ever gave me worth remembering.

When I remember things like that, I sometimes feel guilty for resenting him so much. But when I think about forgiving him (for what, I'm not even sure anymore) it makes me want to cry.

Cheeks

This has been one of the best weekends in recent McBastard history. It was party due to parties, partly due to alcohol, partly due to friends, but mostly due to a young lady who made me smile so much my cheeks hurt.

Hoo - fucking - ray!

I just went into work, and someone was already working my shift. I wish they would have called me, but I'm glad that I don't have to work tonight all the same.

"Well, did he come or what?"

"Jesus Christ! There's just some things you don't talk about in public!"

In the shower today I realized that I handn't masturbated in almost two weeks. It's not that I didn't want to or was too busy to; I just never felt like it. Am I slipping in my old age?

But don't worry folks. I took care of it.

The Best

Stellar makes me crunk cups and blankets. She gives me cheese and popsicles. She calls me out on my bullshit, and she puts up with every other kind of shit I give her. She doesn't wreck my cars or forget to pay back money she owes. She knows how to make me mad, and she knows how to make me happy. She loves me for reasons I can't comprehend.

As far as friends go, Stellar is my best.

Color(less)

I just realized that almost every shirt I own is black.

I think my new favorite color is brown.

Waking Up

His lids slid open revealing tired, bloodshot eyes. They scanned his surroundings. Where the hell am I? He looked to his left. Who is she? His hands slid under the covers. At least I'm still wearing pants.

His memory began to catch up with him in snippets. He remembered showing up at her apartment sometime last night, sans left shoe, struggling to put his soaked shirt back on.

He had demanded her roommate give him some icecream. He couldn't recall exactly, but he was pretty sure he handn't been nice to her. I might have to apologize for that.

He and his new friend in the white hat had walked to his car to get his cigarettes. I think his name was Derek. On their way out they encountered a girl exiting her apartment. They tried to strike up a conversation, but she seemed annoyed. He had been so impressed with how cool Derek was that he gave him a whole pack of cigarettes.

He had tried to play on the roommate's keyboard, but he didn't know how to play the piano. It looked expensive, so he figured that he probably shouldn't mess around with it too much. He tried to get the kid with blonde highlights to play something.

He layed on her bedroom floor, not wanting to move. Everyone was sitting on the floor with him. He felt uncomfortable, as if he could hear everyone thinking how much of a drunken idiot he was. He smelled marijuana. It was passed to him, and he showed a self-restraint that he could have used earlier that night, knowing that any more intoxicants would make him sick.

He heard voices in another room. He was alone.

Now it was morning, and someone (she?) had put him in his wet shirt and muddy sock into her bed. I guess I shouldn't complain. He threw his arm over her and went back to sleep.

In the Trunk . . . Again

(from a conversation with Stellar last night while I was intoxicated)
CynicalMcBastard: and gthn they went to tom thubm but i went beack to d'chi and then to ph9 lambs, and then i rode in a trunk and wore a tiara

* * *
Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time I've been carted about town in the trunk of a car. This was, however, the first time I did it while wearing a tiara and smoking a cigarette.

Unnecessary

He woke up and slowly lifted his head, a thread of drool strung from his lip to a puddle on his pillow. While his red and squinting eyes scanned the room he pulled his hand out of his underwear where it had apparently been spooning with his genitals. His gaze landed on his feet, one of which was still encased in his shoe, tagged with a piece of toilet paper. His other foot was bare and, for an unknown reason, bloody.

He wiggled his toes, felt no pain, and shrugged. He rolled his body over the edge of his bed, landing in a pile of dirty clothes and vomit. He sighed and lifted himself from the cold, sticky mess. He wiped his hand on his once-white tee shirt, adding to the stains from the previous night.

He shuffled, still half-drunk, out of his room and down the hall, stopping in the doorway of the bathroom. A pale, shaven leg hung out into the hallway, its toes pointed upward showing off the pretty green painted nails. He nudged the appendage with his shoed foot. It rocked limply and became still. His hand quickly fumbled for the light switch.

The fluorescent light flickered, revealing a corpse, as if reality had suddenly turned into a horror movie. Finally, the light won out over dark, and he was left staring at her resting in a pool of blood. It surrounded her head like black halo.

He knelt down next to her and put his head to her chest. He couldn't hear over his own heartbeat. He put his hand under her neck and tried to lift her into a sitting position, but her hair was encrusted in blood and glued to the tile floor. He screamed something and fell over her body, sobbing.

After a few minutes, he lifted himself up and looked into her pale face. He kissed her and then whispered, "Please, get up." She just stared past him with half-open eyes. His tears fell from his face to hers.

Mitch Hedberg

Stellar: I'm so fucking bummed about Mitch
CynicalMcBastard: yeah, i know, dude!
CynicalMcBastard: what the F is that!
CynicalMcBastard: c'mon, mitch
CynicalMcBastard: like, seriosly, fuck the pope, bring back mitch
Stellar: I SAID THAT TOO! How DARE the Pope get read his last rites when Mitch ACTUALLY died. Fuck CNN, they covered the wrong damn story

Be Careful What You Wish For

I can remember wishing in 7th grade that I could just be normal. I wanted to blend in; I wanted to be average.

And now, all these years later, I've finally achieved this. I'm an average student with a normal job; I just blend into the crowd.

Sometimes I regret wishing that in 7th grade.

Quothe Banquo

"And oftentimes to win us to our harm
The instruments of darkness tell us truths;
Win us with honest trifles, to betray's
In deepest consequence."

There Is Nothing New Under the Sun

I've got nothing original to say.

But I'm gonna keep on talkin'!

Proboscis

She writhed on her bed for a moment before finding the most comfortably contorted position. Still the pain in her abdomen did not subside. She squeezed a tear out of her eye clenched shut.

Without warning the pain increased ten-fold. She arched her back, thrusting her stomach into the air. She gripped the bed with white-knuckled hands and tried to scream; she wheezed and coughed up blood.

With a wet slap and a spray of blood, a black and greasy proboscis sprung from her midsection. The girl's eyes rolled back and she fell limp onto the bed. The proboscis 'sniffed' the area of the girl at it's base, then investigated the girl's face. With a whimper the proboscis bowed it's 'head' in reverence for it's mother.

Twenty-two

Well, I'm twenty-two years old now. So, I guess it's official: I've wasted my youth.

The Day of Four Posts

I hate it when I can't sleep at night. It throws off my whole day, my whole week. I was in bed awake until 5am or so this morning, and then I could hardly stay awake in classes today. And when I got home I took a two hour nap. Now I'm finally fully awake and I know that I'm not going to be able to fall asleep again tonight. It's a [vicious] cycle (which is a lot like a motorcycle, but with less engine and more teeth).